


collateral damage

by capturearena



Category: Pokemon Ranger
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Ghosts, Mistakes were made, Panic Attacks, The Author Regrets Everything, god i love that that's a tag, spenser is dead, this started as a joke and then everything went to shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6969733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capturearena/pseuds/capturearena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey. I went by the Ranger Base, but you weren’t there, so--”</p>
<p>“Spenser?”</p>
<p>It was him. It was actually him because he was some kind of goddamn miracle and he was alive. Joel wanted to hug him. He wanted to punch him in the face, wanted to yell at him for scaring him like that. He wanted to pull him inside and make him sit down and explain everything. He wanted to forget that Spenser was dead, and they had found his body in the rubble just the day before. He wanted forget because he was here now, and--</p>
<p>He reached out to grab his shoulder and his fingers passed straight through it. It was like touching dry ice, so cold it seared his skin, freezing and burning at the same time.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Spenser said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	collateral damage

**Author's Note:**

> SO first of all i want to apologize for how long this fic took to get posted, considering that i wanted to have it done in, like, april and it's almost the end of may now; i could come up with a myriad of excuses but it basically boils down to school is very hard and i am very lazy and i'm sorry for that
> 
> second of all i want to apologize for writing this at all haha holy shit
> 
> also this fic was originally intended to be 1. much shorter and 2. written as a joke and then everything got out of hand so that's why it's a little weird i.e only having 2 characters, not really having any coherent plot, etc
> 
> someday i'll write something plot-oriented. someday.
> 
> shoutout to [RangersOath](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RangersOath/pseuds/RangersOath) for being my horrible, horrible enabler   
> and to my friend drisa for beta-ing this especially considering she's never played pokemon and apparently just really likes reading my writing/tearing apart my mistakes so thanks for that

It had been several days.

Or Joel felt like it had been several days. He had sort-of-accidentally stopped keeping track, but it had probably been several days. It had been long enough for the Union to tell him to go home for a while, and long enough for him to be willing to comply. It had not been long enough for Cameron--or Elita, once or twice--to stop calling him, he noted bitterly with a glance at his Styler on the desk. Not long enough for him to want to answer. It was rude and petty and he almost felt bad about it.

A sharp knock at the door jolted him out of his bitter reverie. He hated the way he flinched at the sound. “It’s open,” he called, and he hated the way his voice sounded after several days of disuse. He swallowed hard to clear his throat.

“Is it really? I’d have thought you were smarter than that.”

His heart dropped.

_It’s not him. It’s not him it can’t be him--_

He half-walked, half-stumbled to the door, fumbling to open it.

_\--he’s dead they found his body_ yesterday _he’s dead he’s dead--_

It wasn’t locked.

_\--they found his body he’s dead it’s not him--_

“Hey. I went by the Ranger Base, but you weren’t there, so--”

“Spenser _?_ ”

It was him. It was actually him because he was some kind of goddamn miracle and he was alive. Joel wanted to hug him. He wanted to punch him in the face, wanted to yell at him for scaring him like that. He wanted to pull him inside and make him sit down and explain everything. He wanted to forget that Spenser was dead, and they had found his body in the rubble just the day before. He wanted forget because he was here now, and--

He reached out to grab his shoulder and his fingers passed straight through it. It was like touching dry ice, so cold it seared his skin, freezing and burning at the same time.

“Oh,” Spenser said.

 

* * *

 

“You’re dead,” Joel said matter-of-factly, the same way he would have said the weather was cold or he had work to do. “You’re dead.”

“I’m dead,” Spenser said, the faint echo of a laugh in his voice. “You’ve been saying that for a while now.”

“You’re _dead_. I’m losing it, aren’t I?”

“I’m a ghost,” Spenser replied, like he himself was just noticing it for the first time. He was looking down at his hands, marveling at their semitranslucence and the way he could see the carpeting of Joel’s too-nice apartment through them. He sat at the foot of the bed while Joel paced relentlessly.

“I’m losing it,” Joel said.

They stayed like that for a while; Joel only stopped long enough to rake a hand through his hair or scrub a hand over his face.

“Come over here,” Spenser finally sighed, patting the space on the bed next to him. “Is this what you’ve been doing this entire time?”

“What do you mean?”

“This entire time I’ve been dead, have you just been pacing around your apartment? Seriously, come over here and sit down.”

“No, I haven’t,” he replied, but he relented and sat on the bed, still keeping an uncomfortable distance from the other. Spenser pretended not to notice.

“It’s a miracle you’re not dead too,” Spenser scoffed. Joel didn’t respond, or even look at him for that matter. He kept his eyes trained on the opposite wall, straight ahead, unmoving.

“I’m dead,” Spenser said after a while.

“Okay. What I want to know now is what you’re doing in my apartment.”

“Haunting other people’s apartments got boring.”

“ _What?_ ” Joel finally looked over at Spenser again, eyes wide.

He barked a laugh. “I’m kidding. Have you already forgotten how to take a joke?”

“There’s nothing funny about this.”

“What, that I’m dead? I can’t make jokes about my own death?”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Joel finally demanded, and he already regretted raising his voice.

Spenser hesitated, looking down at his hands and the too-nice carpet again. He didn’t even know how Joel afforded this apartment. Gambling, maybe. He had the poker face for it. Spenser made a mental note to ask later.

Eventually, he shrugged. “I guess I’m haunting you,” he said. “You know. Ghost stuff.”

“You’re haunting me,” Joel echoed, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I guess.”

 

* * *

 

It happened one evening, several days later.

“We need to talk,” Joel said as he all but collapsed next to Spenser.

“About?” Spenser replied.

“Your death.”

“Why?”

There was a long, weighted silence. This time, it was Joel’s turn to stare down at his hands, at the rings on his fingers glinting in the light of the sunset from his window. His voice was uncharacteristically small when he asked, “What if I’d gone with you?”

“Don’t.”

“What if I’d been there to save you?”

Spenser’s voice was a warning. “Joel, don’t.”

“What if I could have done something to stop you from--from--” The words died in his throat and his breath hitched and _don’t cry don’t cry_ \--

“Stop it, Joel!” Spenser lashed out, trying to grab Joel by the shoulders.

But Spenser was dead and his hands were dry ice and Joel screamed, “Don’t _fucking_ touch me!”

He shot to his feet and stumbled back a few steps, eyes cold and wild like a cornered animal. He sat down hard in the desk chair behind him, took off his glasses, and buried his face in his hands. Spenser watched, stared, frozen on the bed. He didn’t even realize Joel was crying until he noticed his shoulders jerking unnaturally in his strange, silent kind of sobs.

Joel didn’t cry, never cried. Had almost never cried in front of another person. Not really, or at least not like most people were able to. No, instead he withdrew in on himself, shut out the rest of the world. He would tell Spenser to leave, go away, fuck off, and Spenser would have no choice but to wait for his friend to come back from wherever his mind had taken him this time.

It had always been like this.

He waited.

“Joel,” he said after a while, after the other had at least stopped shaking.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was thick and the words were ripped apart by a sharp sob, an involuntary gasp for air. He didn’t look up. “I’m so--”

“It’s not your fault.”

Joel sighed, a low, shuddering thing. He looked up but not at Spenser, still avoiding his gaze; he didn’t even bother to put his glasses back on. His voice was small when he spoke. “Spenser, it’s my fucking _job_ to help people. To save people.” A pause and a shuddering sob. “And I failed.” He spread his hands, palms up, a gesture of defeat. Surrender. Quietly, near-inaudibly, he added, “You didn’t have to die.”

It wasn’t like him. Hell, he didn’t even _look_ like himself, eyes red-rimmed and brows creased and shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to make himself look smaller. That wasn’t Joel.

_Fuck_ , Spenser wanted to touch him.

“ _I_ failed,” Spenser insisted. “If this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine for being such a stubborn asshole.” He heard something that might have been Joel finally laughing, but it also might have been another sob. _Both, maybe,_ he thought, and decided to count it as a partial success. “It’s mostly the Go-Rock Squad’s fault, you know. But I should’ve...” He trailed off as he realized he didn’t know.

(Should’ve listened to Joel in the first place when he’d said he couldn’t go alone, but then Joel could have died too. Should’ve evacuated with everyone else as soon as he realized the base was collapsing, but then the Pokemon would have been left for dead instead. Should’ve not gone at all, but there hadn’t been a choice. There never was, not for Rangers.)

“I know,” Joel said, when Spenser failed to finish the sentence out loud.

He always knew.

_That_ was Joel.

 

* * *

 

 

“What _is_ dying like, anyway?”

“I don’t know. It’s not that bad, actually. Like, I wouldn’t recommend it, but it’s not painful or anything.”

“Not _painful?_ You were crushed to death by a building.”

“I mean, the stuff before hurt like hell. But dying itself doesn’t hurt. It’s kind of like going to sleep, just... forever. It’s peaceful, I think.”

Joel sighed and leaned back against the wall. It was far from their first conversation like this. It had almost become a routine, in their own strange and morbid way: Joel asked questions like what dying was like (not painful, apparently) or what being a ghost felt like (weird, mostly), and Spenser asked ones like who had taken over Ringtown in his stead (Lunick) or how the funeral was (terrible).

“Why do you ask?” Spenser continued. “You’re not planning on dying anytime soon, are you?” It was worded as a joke, but there was something at the edge of his voice that suggested otherwise.

“Curiosity,” Joel replied bluntly.

“Well, don’t die. Fiore doesn’t need two dead Leaders.”

“Fiore didn’t need one dead Leader.”

“Well, here I am anyway. Don’t die, okay?”

Joel blew out a sigh. Even without looking over, he could feel Spenser staring hard at him.

Sort of.

One of the stranger things about ghosts was apparently that their eyes never looked completely focused. Even when Spenser was glaring at him like this, his eyes seemed absent, distracted. Like he was staring off into space and Joel just happened to be in his field of vision.

_Then again,_ he thought, _Spenser didn’t do a lot of focusing when he was alive, either._

“I won’t,” Joel said finally, meeting Spenser’s empty glare as well as he could.

There was a pause, presumably as Spenser was thinking of something to ask in return. He shifted on the bed; _always restless, even in death,_ Joel thought.

“Anyway, how are the others doing?” he finally said.

“Who?” Joel asked.

“The others. Cameron and Elita.”

There was a long silence.

He didn’t know. He hadn’t seen them since the funeral, hadn’t answered his Styler since Elita had called him and said Spenser was dead and probably that she was sorry. Probably; he’d hung up before he could hear for sure, but that was what everyone said. _Sorry_ , like it was their fault and not his.

Spenser saw the blank look on the other’s face. He glanced over and saw his Styler on his desk, notification light blinking to signify there were still messages waiting. His amused expression fell as he put the pieces together and he sighed. “Goddammit, Joel. You can’t do that to them. They’re your friends--”

“I know.”

“Then why are you ignoring them?” When there was no response, he continued, “Pushing _me_ away when you’re upset is one thing--”

“I’m not pushing anyone away.” He could hear the cold, defensive edge to his voice, and there was a pang of guilt that he pushed to the back of his mind.

“Then what are you doing?”

He was silent. Spenser could see it on his face--the ice in his eyes, any semblance of expression gone from his lips, his jaw so tense it probably _hurt_ \--that he was trying to draw in on himself again, just like before, just like always.

Spenser sighed. Quieter, gentler, he said, “Joel, listen--”

“Fuck you.”

(Fuck you for leaving. Fuck you for dying. Fuck you for talking. Fuck you for still existing.)

“Joel.”

He met Spenser’s gaze, eyes still drowning in cold fury, jaw set. He looked like he was ready to punch him in the face.

“They’re trying to help you.”

“I’m fine.”

Spenser bit back a laugh. “You’ve been holing yourself up in your apartment for two weeks, only leaving for work, ignoring all of your friends--come _on_ , Joel, have you even been _sleeping_? You’re not fucking fine. They want to _help_ you, and you’re ignoring them.”

Nothing. Joel dropped eye contact again and breathed out a shuddering sigh. This close, Spenser could see the muscles in his jaw tensed and twitching under his skin, and he realized he was trying not to cry again. He looked so uncharacteristically _pathetic_ , and that bothered Spenser more than anything else. More than his own death.

He really didn’t mind being dead, actually. Being a Ranger, especially as old as he was, eventually one kind of had to come to terms with the possibility that they could die on a Mission. It wasn’t a guarantee--it wasn’t even a very common occurrence--but it was still a precedented possibility.

(The first time, they’d been kids, no older than fifteen, still starry-eyed and oblivious. Him, Joel, and Cameron--they were inseparable.

They’d been stationed in Summerland and were trying their hands at the Capture Challenge to kill time until a new Mission came up. Spenser barely even remembered falling into the water. Vaguely, in some part of his brain he’d probably repressed, he remembered trying to breathe and finding saltwater in his mouth and nose and lungs. He remembered trying to look up but his vision was hazy and rimmed with black; he remembered what passing out felt like.

He definitely remembered coming to on the dock a few minutes later, coughing and spitting up saltwater, dry-heaving until he remembered how to breathe. He remembered laying back down on the plankwood and actually laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. He’d looked up and found Cameron’s terrified face above him. He’d felt the other’s hand still at his neck as he checked for a pulse that, a moment ago, hadn’t been there.

He’d seen Joel a few feet away looking scared out of his fucking mind, and only then had he realized he probably shouldn’t have been laughing.

“What happened?” he’d asked as he fought back the rest of the laughing fit.

“You just _died,_ ” Cameron had frantically replied. “You stopped breathing. Oh my god, don’t ever do that again.”)

Joel stood up suddenly and started for the door, snapping Spenser out of the abstraction.

“Where are you going?” Spenser asked.

“I’m leaving.”

“Where?” he pressed.

“I’m going for a walk,” Joel said, and then the door slammed and Spenser was alone. He felt like he’d been alone the entire time.

The part of him that was a Ranger told him to go after him, to do something besides sit there and do nothing. The part of him that knew Joel, knew what happened when he got like this, told him to fuck off.

_Goddammit, Joel._

He raked his hands through his hair. At least Joel couldn’t tell him to get a haircut now.

Then again, Joel wasn’t telling him much of anything anymore. How long had it even _been_ since they’d had a normal conversation that wasn’t somehow about death and didn’t end in screaming?

_Two weeks,_ something in the back of his mind replied.

 

* * *

 

A while later, after the sky got dark and Spenser got lonely and tired of waiting, he left to find Joel.

(“Just give him some time,” Cameron had told him once. “He’ll come back.”

_And if he doesn’t?_ Spenser hadn’t asked, because he didn’t think he would need to.)

The night was cold--not that Spenser could really feel it anyway--and the city streets were mostly empty, save for a few young couples and late workers walking home. He wasn’t even sure if they could see him, but none spared him a passing glance regardless. Ironically enough, that was a saving grace then; when he was alive, it had been one of the reasons he’d dreaded big cities.

(He’d once brought it up to Joel, who’d only looked at him incredulously and asked why.

“No one pays attention to each other,” he’d replied. “No one ever smiles.” Then he’d added, “You should smile more. You’ll get wrinkles scowling at people all the time.”

“I’m twenty-six,” Joel had snapped.

Spenser had laughed and said, “You don’t look twenty-six.”)

He found Joel at the far end of harbor, leaning over the railing that overlooked the ferry port. Beyond that was the ocean. Mercurial silver light flickered on the black waves, and Joel had definitely been crying. He was calm now, but Spenser could still see the red rimming his eyes, hear the stutter in his breath.

“Hey,” Spenser said as he came up behind him, the same way he’d speak to a wild Pokemon he was trying not to startle. It was kind of the same thing, really.

Joel didn’t respond.

Spenser stood to his left, deciding it would be better to stare out at the ocean instead of his friend. “You don’t have to say anything,” he continued. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Nothing, so Spenser kept talking, as per the usual.

“I know,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “it’s been hard lately. And it’s my fault, obviously. But listen--you can’t keep doing this, Joel. You can’t keep pushing people away when something bad happens. You just... can’t. People rely on you--people _care about you,_ Joel, and they’re all worried about you.”   
  
He hesitated there, and his voice was nearly a low, hollow whisper when he added, “I’m worried about you.”

He saw Joel’s hands on the railing tighten into white-knuckled fists. He waited for him to say something-- _anything,_ at this point--but there was no response. His eyes were still fixed on the black expanse of the ocean, but Spenser knew that wasn’t what he was seeing. His mind was somewhere else, somewhere too far for Spenser to reach.

He sighed.

“Anyway, it’s a beautiful night tonight,” he said, because it was. The sky was clear, brimming with stars, and the ocean was calm. Black waves beat rhythmically against the walls of the harbor. They were both silent for a while.

“You’re really broken up about this, aren’t you?” Spenser finally asked.

(They were no older than fifteen; it was after Spenser had drowned, and Joel had stopped talking again and Cameron had made Spenser “go do something about it.”

“I didn’t know you actually cared about me that much,” Spenser had said, laughing at the apparent ridiculousness of the idea.

“Of course I care about you,” Joel had snapped, and Spenser had stopped laughing.)

Joel scrubbed a hand over his face. When he finally spoke, it was with forced evenness and he sounded like every word was an effort he didn’t want to be making. “My closest friend is dead, and the last conversation I ever had with him was an argument.”

(They were twenty-seven and it was just before Spenser had left and never come back and Joel was nearly yelling in his strange, restrained way. Like he wanted to yell but couldn’t bring himself to commit such a crime.

“What’s the worst they could do to me?” Spenser had asked.

“They could kill you,” Joel had not-yelled.

“They’re not going to kill me,” Spenser had laughed.)

“I’m here now,” Spenser said.

Joel shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair. “You’re dead.”

“So?”

“So it’s not--” His voice broke and he gritted his teeth, bowing his head so Spenser couldn’t see his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Spenser.”

“It’s not the same,” Spenser said. “Nothing’s the same anymore, is it?”

Joel was silent for a long time. The waves continued to beat against the walls, slowly working away at the brick like they always had. No, the ocean was still the same. The ocean didn’t care that Spenser or anyone was dead. The ocean didn’t care about much, really.

“No,” Joel replied, “it isn’t.”

Spenser sighed. “I know.”

“I think people wanted to believe that everything would go back to normal after the Go-Rock Squad was over,” Joel said. “It wasn’t until the news that you were dead got out that they realized nothing was ever going to be the same again.”

Spenser hesitated as if choosing his words carefully. “Were you one of them?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m still here. Kind of. Cameron and Elita are still here--you should call them back when you get home.”

“Tomorrow,” Joel interrupted.

“Tonight.”

Joel rubbed at his face again, finally looked Spenser in the eye, and replied, “I’m fucking tired. You’re exhausting to be around.”

Spenser had to laugh despite himself, both at the sudden profanity and the fact that it was so much like their old banter and so much like Joel that for just a moment, it was easy to forget anything had changed at all.


End file.
